


Won't find him anywhere (he's gone for good, lost for everybody)

by Saladtrip



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Basically just angst, Depression, Immortality, Mental Health Issues, More angst, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, and issues in general, did I mention : angst, england has family issues, lots and lots of angst, more or less, some sex later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:18:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saladtrip/pseuds/Saladtrip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So that was it. He felt the need to laugh, and to piss off this life, this world, he felt the need to rebel for a second, the need to shout out against fate because it was stealing it all and left him nothing. Then he remembered that yeah, he had nothing left, and that meant no more reason to fight, uh. So he sighed and lit a cigarette, laughing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys !  
> This is actually the first fanfic I write in english so....yeah. I'll try.  
> The thing is english is my 2nd language and as much as I try to avoid mistakes, they may happen, so correct me if you spot one, it helps me a lot.  
> Anyway the focus here is on Arthur cause I love seeing him suffer way, way too much.

Ah.

 

He exhales a draft of smoke, and watches it as it slowly diffuses into the air, just like the waves of pleasure growing languid throughout his body.

 

Ah.

 

This. is life. The real life. Centuries and millenia to finally end up here.

Slouched on the rotten floor, he suddenly feels the need to laugh, so he does, over and over. And it’s good, isn’t it, to laugh like that. And again. Until the whole world stops, if that’s what it takes. Until he’s dragged out of here, until someone peels him off that wall against which his fits bang him.

 

Laughing fits

 

The concept is funny, somehow, and he’s laughing again, harder even, until his belly hurts, and then he sneaks another fag, because the smoke arabesques distract him from the pain, because he likes to feel the poison spreading inside his system, and he laughs.

 

He laughs.

 

It’s like hysteria, but gentler, quieter. What’s the point in screaming, when no one can hear him, and when no one wants to anyway.

When even he doesn’t want to, not anymore, doesn’t want a thing.

 

Doesn’t want a thing, because the more, the merrier, but he’s not the type that follows the rules, and if he’s alone, he’ll laugh anyway, his shoulders shaking and bumping against the  bookcase he’s leaning onto, and maybe he’s afraid, maybe without that he’ll end up on the floor, unable to pick himself up, stirring  with convulsions, with fits.

 

So he really can fall further down.

 

The idea makes him laugh, really, even more than now, it’s strange, and he lets go, slumped, his face against the floor, inhaling the mould, and he’s laughing, laughing, like he never laughed before, he thinks, but like he will many times again, he knows.

 

Unless he dies before.

 

Unless everyone dies.

 

Unless everything disappears.

 

And it’s funny, funny, and he doesn’t even feel the pain anymore, and he slips his hands under his body to get another fag from his pocket, and his nose hits the wooden floor, and it’s too much, really, too much fun, and he can’t control himself anymore, and his legs shake, and convulse, twist with laughter, or maybe it’s this lack he can feel lurking, yes, maybe, probably, the lack of what?, the lack of everything, answers himself, or someone else, after all, who knows, the room is empty, but everything is empty, and he’s empty too, and it makes him laugh.

 

Laugh.

 

The lack, the emptiness, him.

 

Laugh.

 

And he doesn’t have control over anything, anything at all, and his cigarette stub is burning his fingers, and his nose is bleeding, and nothing feels fine, and nothing is fine, and the euphoria can’t conceal the anxiety anymore, but it’s alright, it’s alright, because he laughs even harder.

 

It’s like hysteria, really, but duller, and somehow more desesperate too, crazier, because he’s not even fighting anymore, there is not an ennemy, not a thing left to fight, just a tide rising in his body and he lets go.

 

He lets himself go.

 

Because that’s all he can do now.

 

That’s all he’s going to do. And when they’ll come to fetch him, he’ll give way to the arms that will pull him out of here, out of hysteria, out of emptiness, to drag him into this nothingness, where people will ask for his help, or whatever he has to offer, and that’ll make him laugh, laugh, laugh even more, because he has nothing left, nothing left to offer, because he is nothing, not anymore, and everything in him is nothing, and all is nothing, and why would they need him in the nothingness since nothing happens there ?

 

No answers to that, and that’s what’s the craziest, and that’s what’s the funniest.

 

And he’ll laugh, laugh until they catch on to him, until they understand he’s just a wreck, a waste, less than nothing, and they’ll let him die on the floor, since their nothingness can’t be saved, and he’ll throw the finger, to them, to everyone, anyone, everything and nothing because he knows, oh yes, he knows better than anyone that all is nothing and their nothingness is all.

 

And he’ll keep on laughing, and he’ll laugh under their stares, and he’ll laugh under their blows, because he doesn’t give a shit, yeah, after all he doesn’t, they can all go to hell and he’ll still be here tomorrow.

 

And after.

 

And After.

 

And everyday after that.

 

And he’ll laugh still, always, without them understanding, without them comprehending a thing, nothing, and it’ll make him laugh, again, ever, and he’ll tell them all to fuck off.

 

He doesn’t care, anyway, yeah, he doesn’t, and he gibbers it, barely audible, not even comprehensible as his breath forms little bubbles of blood on the pad of his lips, and the stub has burnt down a long time ago, and his laugh, too, and yet he’s shaking still, always, and he’d like to sleep now, but he knows he can’t, but he still wants to, and it’s strange, really, to want something at that moment.

 

It would almost make him laugh.

 

But he can’t, already, he’s empty, emptied, like a deflated balloon, he had a last “pschhhhht” before he vanished, and he needs air, now, right, something to inflate him, fill him, to be injected with smoke, but he can’t feel his arms and he can’t lift it to grab a cigarette, so he stays here, half suffocated by the stenches of mould, chilled to the bone suddenly, and bile at his lips, its flavor on his tongue, trying to escape, to come out to mix with the half dried blood ooozing between the wooden board.

 

He can’t take it anymore, and it’s just the beginning, but he can’t, so he lets go, again and againandagain.

 

There’s nothing else he can do.

  
Outside, the war rages on.


	2. And waiting for nothing to happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, it's been a while, sorry, but shit happened in Paris, which is right next to where I live, so I've been a bit out of it, plus it got busy at school and... anyway.  
> I'm aware that you'll need context for this, but don't worry, it's coming next chapter.

“Hey, c’m’ere, lil shit”

 

He wants to say Fuck off, but he would have to pay for it, more than he’s willing to, not that he has anything to offer, anyway.

So he just shuts it, and tries to convince himself that he doesnt care.

 

“ Told you to f’ckin c’m’ere, you’re doin’ it or do I have to drag your scrawny ass over ‘ere ?”

 

He should obey, maybe, let go, right, he feels bad, so bad, we said we were doing that, right, but still he turns his head and says calmly, so calmly

 

“ Are you talking to me ?”

 

“ Is there other lil shit I should know about ?”

 

He wants to say  yeah, you, asshole, but he has to take this, right, just this little bit, no violence, so he answers, simply, oh so simply

 

“ Then speak nicely won’t ya”

 

The next thing he knows, he’s on the floor, a weight on his shoulders, and his nose is bleeding again, and he hurts, I knew it, why are you doing this, why are you opening your damn mouth to begin with, why don’t you just let go, you’re so afraid of your own words, see, so why don’t you just give up, we said we would, you know, it’s easier, really, and the other hisses furiously into his ear.

 

“ Hey there baby boy, thougt you could play it tough uh ?”

 

And he’s feeling this grip on his hair, pulling, scratching, and he couldn’t care less because the only thing he can focus on is how easier it seems to put up a fight right now, and that’s a dilemma, really, and the weight is fading away, because the other must have thougt  it was submission, this silence, that’s right, he’s often been told that he thinks too much, but really, maybe it’s them who don’t think enough, not enough to see the nothingness, not even a glimpse, nothing, and he tells himself that they’re all idiots, maybe, that he’s the only one who’s intelligent, who knows, and the other, over there, who stood up and went off, he’s an idiot too - and why did he want him to come if he’s the one leaving, anyway, and he thinks, he wanted nothing, maybe. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and it’s funny, all things considered, so he repeats it, over and over and over, until he starts laughing, slowly, pathetically, frenetically, and he can hear the other, not too far, grumble something like freak, and it makes him laugh, again, always, even more, and he laughs,  bent in half, and there’s just that, the silence, and his laugh, his laugh, et the silent noise -silent, but he can hear it - of his blood dripping on the floor, and that’s a whole symphony, and that’s wonderful, and he laughs harder, and it’s the pinnacle, the triumph, and he’s wearing himself out, curled up on the floor, tiny, and sick and shaking and laughing like a madman.

 

Somewhere further, he can hear the other sigh loudly

 

And between two giggles, he wonders when he got to that point, when he stopped calling him by his name, when he disappeared, disappeared to become only the other, just a fool among the rest.

 

He wonders, just for a moment, and then here he goes again.

 

~

 

He can’t recall when, exactly, he left the old barrack in ruins with its hardwood covered in mould. How. Or with whom.

 

Truth to be told, he can’t really recall anything, these days.

 

Not his age, though it must have been a while, already, that he’s lost count.

 

Not the reason why. Why all of this keeps happening. Not why, not how, not how long it has been since it all started. Since he’s like this.

 

Or maybe he does know, in fact, but he just doesn’t want to recall, to remember, and prefers spending hours contemplating the ceiling, its cracks, its peeling paint, wondering if there ever even was a reason once.

 

Yes, there was, it whispers, but these days he doubts, he wavers. A reason, just a reason, for what he is now, and it’s a joke, surely, I suppose, since the concept is making him laugh that much.

 

Or maybe, rather, he just needed a trigger, a push, maybe all his life he’s been vacillating on the edge of the precipice, waiting for the impulsion that would finally make him fall, sink, maybe all his life he’s only been this, a ticking bomb, tic, toc, tic, tic, an finally, in the end,he exploded, he burst, burst of laughter, and at this thought he happens to roll with laughter, holding his stomach, because he often thinks of it, you know, he often does since he’s with them.

 

He doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know since when, but he can’t recall a moment when he wasn’t with them, at least, not in this life, so he lets go, for lack of a better option, he lets go.

 

He’s having a hard time remembering things, huh, yes, that’s true, he does, maybe because he’s spending so much time thinking, thinking of what’s funny that he’s losing sense of time, of value, of relief and pattern, because after all, compared to This, everything is reduced to nothing.

 

This. This. This.

 

This, what is This, no one knows, not even him, who only knows that’s This is important, more than everything, more than anything, and who’s thinking of it, thinking all day, all days, for This is everything, but be that as it may, up to now, This is nothing.

 

That’s why he doesn’t tell anyone - not that he has anyone to talk to, anyway - definitely not them (since when did they lost their names ?  - he’s wondering too).

 

He hasn’t forgotten them, no, really.

 

It’s a bit like this word, madness, you know.

 

Most of the time, it’s like it doesn’t exist, after all, there’s no need, huh, so it’s locked somewhere, lost, and it’s as if it is forgotten.

 

But then, when you need it, there’s just that, an impulse, and it emerges, and you remember, suddenly, and it’s as though it was here all along, and it wasn’t forgotten in the end.

 

Maybe that’s all he needs, after all. An impulse.

 

And he will emerge.

 

But they can’t give it to him, right. Maybe that’s why he can’t find the impulse for them.

 

He just knows that they’re here, always have been, that they’ve been together, already, a long time, always, even, yeah, even when they were away, they were with him, right, there was something, right, a link between him and them, and that, that’s not nothing, huh, right, that’s it, huh.

 

There’s three of them.

 

A ginger, a very strange ginger, yeah, almost red, red as a fox, and he’s fascinated by it, by him, yeah, it’s like a flame dancing above two emeralds, and that’s pretty, right, two indifferent emeralds, two emeralds that barely look at him, that stare right past him as if he wasn’t there, and he can’t help but wonder why, why are they ignoring him, and  the cruel emeralds are pretty, oh so pretty.

 

There are two others, right, two other pairs of emeralds, and yet, he wonders why, they’re far, so far from being as pretty as  these particular ones, hiding the raging flame of the mind of him, the fox, and it’s pretty, this cold fire.

 

The emeralds of the other ginger  - the one who’s closer to a bright orange, one that’s burning his eyes - are burning him, seeing him, seeing how he’s fascinated. This one hates him, probably, and his emerald eyes are burning, scorching, and it’s just like his raging hiss dying on his lips, the one he can’t  let past them, and that he’s throwing with his eyes instead, his two burning emeralds, and yet, even when they’re consuming him like that, they’re never as striking as the fox’s.

Maybe because his freckles are like stars on his cheeks, his face, his neck, and outshone the sparkle of his pupils.

Maybe because hate is a bound already. A link. And it’s less cruel than indifference.

 

Everything is.

 

Maybe that’s also why the third one’s seem so dull in comparison.

 

Because this one, the brunette, is nice, you know, si nice, talking to him, touching him, considering him, softly, so softly, as if he might break at the slightest word, the slightest touch, the slightest breath.

 

Sure looks like it huh ?

 

He wonders why he doesn’t care about the nice ones. The ones that actually respect him.

He wonders why he’s always aiming higher. He knows though, that he won’t make it, won’t be able to jump high enough to reach them, not with only his meager strength, it’s certain, he needs something else, something more, an impulse.

 

He woud like to know, the boy, how to grasp it, the impulse, and he tells himself that the outside of his pit, the platform where these emeralds stands, all of that,it’s the same thing, the same fight, it’s him, it’s the waiting, always, quiet, the waiting for the impulse.

 

And while he’s waiting, the boy, he’d like to tell the brunette to stop, to stop trying, to stop being nice, to stop treating his like a human being, or whatever he is that looks like one, because he’s nothing like that, the boy, he feels like a whore, dragged through the mud, high on every drug, lost, knackered, destroyed, and above all, he can take it.

 

He can take it, and it sounds crazy, true, because he looks so weak, so weak, and he is anyway, but he’s clever, and he knows.

 

He knows the pain has no end. No bottom.

 

He knows he’ll keep falling, always, endless, and it will never stop, because it is the only thing that never stops. That goes on into infinity, just like it does now.

 

He knows that, the boy, and when you know that, nothing can end you,break you, nothing else can touch you but the pain drilling, drilling, drilling right through your heart.

 

And when you know that, you wallow in it, just like now, because the pain is all you can claim, so you get used to it, you learn, and anxiety becomes an addiction, and the convulsions a necessity, just like all the trash he put into his body up to now, and that’s like a flurry, and you can’t live otherwise now.

He’s addicted to every single drug, and then some. Soon the emeralds will become his addiction, too. It’s his way of breathing, after all. His cold, his cruel, beautiful addiction.

 

And somehow it’s funny, so he’s laughing again, the boy, again and again, and when he hears the ginger shouting, he laughs even harder.

 

_Even crazier._

 

He’s still desesperatly looking for the hindmost addiction, the one that will offer him this real flurr.

 

This quest, it might be his stongest addiction yet, but when he’ll achieve it, nothing will compare to what he’ll find then.

 

What he’s craving.

  
_He’s still looking for an impulse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. It did got worse. I did warn you though.  
> So about these 3 new characters, I reckon it's all a bit messy and confusing so : I was introducing Scotland (referred to as "the fox"), Ireland (The ginger), and Wales (the brunette).  
> I wrote this like a year ago so it's hard to remember what exactly I had in mind when in posted it first. Remember that this fic is kind of an escape valve where I put... basically my psycho stuff I can't really talk about.  
> So it's gonna be mainly angst and feels and weird crazy thougts but... yeah, hope you'll stick with it.  
> til next time !

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, babu over here is in a bad place right now.  
> Don't worry, it gets b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ worse. Much, much worse. srry guyz  
> Anyway, this is actually a translation of a fic I'm currently writing in french and I never imagined how much work it would be to translate it. Like, it took me at least twice as long to translate this tiny thing into english as to write it in french. CAN YOU EVEN SRQGLZKERG  
> Never mind.  
> Hope you liked it, please comment if you did and I'll try to post chapter 1 soon.  
> See ya !


End file.
